Little hands

Aidan and I have a special church dance. It happens every single Sunday, without fail. He starts off sitting next to me, quietly, in his chair. Aidan loves to sing, so he really gets into the opening songs and sings his little heart out. Then we sit for awhile. He tries, bless his little heart, he really tries - for about two minutes. Before I know what's happening, he's slowly inching closer to me and then suddenly, he's parked on my lap.

Now, it wouldn't be so bad if he simply sat on my lap, but he proceeds to twist and turn and flip for the next thirty minutes, leaving me red-faced and sweating with the exertion of trying to not drop a 5-year-old who is suddenly looking like he's going to be following in his father's 6'3" frame footsteps (didn't those size 6 jeans just fit him a week ago?). I usually don't dress for a workout when I go to church.

This church dance of ours often annoys me greatly. But yesterday, just as I was feeling like I couldn't take the wiggling around anymore, he turned to face me and smiled, weaving his little fingers through mine. My heart melted instantly.

How much longer will my favorite little man hold my hand? How much longer will he draw me pictures of he and I hugging with a heart above our heads? How much longer will he ask in genuine confusion why he can't marry me when he's grown up, because I'm his favorite girl?

It made me think of past crushes and boyfriends and my wonderful husband, and how thrilling it is to touch their hand for the first time. Before I know it, Aidan won't hold my hand. Before I know it, a girl's heart will pound with joy because holding my boy's hand is her dream come true. I'll have to step aside as his favorite girl. I'll pretend I'm okay with that moment (and I will be, mostly).

But for now, I'm holding his little hand tight.